


anchored

by heatherchandler (red_handedjill)



Category: Heathers (1988), Heathers: The Musical - Murphy & O'Keefe
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Possibly Unrequited Love, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 04:33:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5115866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/red_handedjill/pseuds/heatherchandler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes she wonders if Heather would give a fuck about any of this anyways. — mcnamawyer, chansaw, hinted chandlmara</p>
            </blockquote>





	anchored

There’s a bottle of sleeping pills she hasn’t touched in weeks on her bedside table and a bouquet of the reddest roses they had in her hands. No one has put flowers down in a month. She thinks maybe Heather has dumped out the wine they would’ve drank at sleepovers before falling asleep tangled up with each other a few times and Veronica might’ve stopped by to at least ramble on about how things could be beautiful but she doubts Heather would’ve given a fuck about any of it.

It’s still painful to think of her in the past tense like that.

“Hi, Heather,” she smiles, dropping down to her knees in the snow, “I brought you flowers.” It’s fucking stupid, she knows that. Dead girls don’t listen to their best friend at a grave.

But whatever, she does it anyways. It kind of makes her feel better.

“Heather?”

It’s definitely not her dead best friend’s voice and she curses at herself for even considering that. Veronica. That’s what  _Veronica_ sounds like, she reminds herself.

“Veronica? What, um, what are you doing here?” She asks, nervously tapping her fingers together.

The taller girl scratches the back of her head, cautiously drawing closer. “I, uh, came to visit … Her. I didn’t expect to run into anyone else and, look, if you wanna be alone that’s fine, I don’t mind—”

Heather grabs her hand before she really means to do anything. “No. Stay. Please, I—I don’t like being alone,” she pleads. She lets go of Veronica’s hand, scared. “Besides, Heather—she … She loved you,” she mutters.

Veronica stares at her for a second, wide eyed and confused. “Heather didn’t love me. She was straight. And—and I really fucked up. Anyways, she’s dead now.” It’s colder than the snow crunching under their feet. “That was uncalled for. I’m sorry.”

There’s a breathless sort of silence for a moment. Then Heather wraps her gloved fingers with Veronica’s bare ones. “I shouldn’t have told you that. She only told me because she was so, so drunk,” she whispers, her grip tightening like everything might break if she lets go again.

She gets no verbal reply. Instead, she’s tugged closer and the hands are dropped to their sides, fingers still intertwined.

Veronica doesn’t lead her away from the grave.

“You … You know, I guess I can’t be a game show host either,” she breathes out.

Neither of them laugh but Heather lets herself lean against Veronica. “No, you really can’t,” she murmurs.

“Heather?” She sounds so tired, like she’s the one with all those untouched sleeping pills. “Can we get some hot chocolate?” 

The only response is her hand being tugged away from the flowers and the grave and the guilt of it all.

(It’s okay when they both cry into their mugs.)


End file.
